


Christmas Saves Mycroft

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28272333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Mycroft has a dream within a dream, and it's so real and so precious that he doesn't want to give it up. But it's no good living in a dream world.
Relationships: Mystrade - Relationship
Comments: 13
Kudos: 56
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2020





	Christmas Saves Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hoomhum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/gifts).



> My warmest thanks to Hoomsie for her enthusiastic response to this first chapter.

A peculiar sense of well-being was one of the first things Mycroft noticed when he woke. Moaning softly, he gave a luxurious stretch, feeling his spine pop a little. He sighed and resisted opening his eyes for a moment. His alarm would blare any minute now, heralding another endless day of negotiations, headaches and paperwork. It would be hours before he returned home, and further hours before he reached his bed.

Drifting pleasantly, he was unable to return to sleep, knowing that at any moment he would be interrupted. Still, he indulged in a day dream, one of his favourites. The enticing smell of coffee, the domestic sound of his lover softly moving around the kitchen, the pad of bare feet on the floor and then--

“‘Morning gorgeous,” a familiar voice, unfamiliarly roughened with sleep, murmured, as fond hands slipped under the cover to slide around his waist. “You up?” Warm and rough, a palm cupped him through his sleep bottoms. “Oh, I see you are.”

Mycroft laughed, leaning back against the broad chest behind him, smiling as soft lips nuzzled at his neck. He shivered as a tongue teased his ear.

“Cold, darlin’?” Firm hands pulled him closer. “I’ll warm you up.”

Mycroft’s eyes were closed in bliss, “Greg…” he pleaded softly.

His alarm didn’t blare, but it did go off, startling him, scattering the fragments of his oft-repeated fantasy. The usual urgent bleat didn’t sound, but instead a merry ringing of sleigh bells. Blinking in confusion, he sat up on one elbow, reaching for his mobile. He stared at it, nonplussed, for it was silent. It was also...not his usual formidable black shock-proof case. He was holding a sleek iPhone in a red case printed with fat, cheerful Santas. The sleigh bells sounded from behind him. Rolling over, deeply perplexed and with a growing sense of worry, Mycroft barely registered his surroundings. His stone-coloured sheets and duvet had been replaced with deep crimson sheets ans a white and red quilt.

There was another mobile phone, the source of the sound, lighting up on the other bedside table. Mycroft was reaching for it when Greg Lestrade, clad in nothing but low-hanging flannel pyjama bottoms and a smile, appeared. 

He paused in the doorway, holding two steaming mugs. “Oh darlin’, I’m sorry! I thought I’d turned that damned early alarm off last night.”

Mycroft gaped at him, mind reeling. “Uh…”

Greg set the mugs down, reaching for his mobile. He silenced the alarm, dropped it back onto the table and crawled onto the bed, distractingly bare-chested and seemingly very real. 

_I’m asleep,_ Mycroft thought desperately, as Greg swooped in to kiss him. _This is a dream._

Greg’s lips felt very real on his, however. His tongue was exceedingly convincing. The heat on Mycroft’s mouth, the taste on his tongue, the hitch in his breathing all felt lifelike and frankly wonderful. Adrift, he clutched the bed clothes with both hands and resisted either slapping himself awake or grabbing Greg by the hair and dragging him down into the warm bedding with him. If this was a dream it was life-like in the extreme.

Greg sighed, pulling back with slow reluctance. His brown eyes were impossibly warm. He stroked Mycroft’s cheek. “God, I want nothing more than to stay in this bed with you forever.”

“Why don’t you?” Mycroft asked, dazed. He swayed into Greg, who kissed him obligingly. 

“Wish I could, sweetheart,” Greg husked, pressing his forehead to Mycroft’s. “But it’s the Hometown Parade today, don’t forget. I have to get out there early to make sure the route is ready.”

Mycroft hadn’t the faintest idea what Greg was talking about, and frankly he didn’t care. Dreams never made sense, anyhow. “Oh hang the parade.” He looped his arms around Greg’s neck and melted back onto the mattress, drawing Greg with him. The other man came willingly, settling easily between Mycroft’s thighs, returning his kisses warmly. Mycroft’s heart threatened to beat directly out of his chest. His head was swimming again. “I promise to make it worth your while,” he growled, nibbling on Greg’s lower lip.

“You devil,” Greg groaned, hands tightening on Mycroft’s shoulders. He looked truly pained. “I can’t.”

“Greg…” Mycroft hitched one leg up over Greg’s hip, rolled his groin against him suggestively. Please may he not wake up yet!

“...you’re going to be late too…”

“Anthea can handle anything which arises,” Mycroft breathed, slipping one hand between them to fondle Greg through the thin cloth tenting over his burgeoning erection. 

“Hmm?” Greg sounded distracted. “Who?”

“My assistant,” Mycroft murmured, arching his neck so Greg could better reach the sensitive skin under his jaw. 

Greg pulled back, looking confused, “Since when have you had an assistant? Did you hire someone to replace Robert?”

“Who?” Mycroft shook his head, “Never mind that, this dream could be over any time. Come back here and kiss me.”

Greg didn’t have a chance to obey, as his phone shrilled, this time urgently, a loud klaxon. “Christ, that’s the station--hold on a tic, love.” He lunged for his mobile, snatching it up, suddenly all business. “Lestrade.”

He scowled at whatever the caller had to say, sending an agitated hand through his hair. “Aw, hell. Yeah. Yeah. Alright, I’ll pop my coffee in a travel mug and skip breakfast. Be there in twenty.”

Mycroft wanted to howl. His beautiful dream! Being snatched from him!

Greg gave him a fast, deep kiss and hopped off the bed. “Sorry, Myc, I’ll have to give you a raincheck for morning sex.” He looked regretful, even as he shed his joggers and hurried into the closet. 

Mycroft took one last wide-eyed look at the phenomenal arse disappearing from view and flung himself face down into the pillows, screeching. 

“What’s that, love?” Greg stumbled out of the closet, hopping into trousers as he tried to shrug on his shirt. He stopped long enough to right himself, and his clothes, sending Mycroft a rueful grin. “God, you look like heaven lying there, beautiful.” He blew him a kiss, stooping to grab his shoes. “Drink up your coffee and get over to the inn, or you’ll be rushing all day.” With that he was gone.

Mycroft flopped onto the bed, glaring at the ceiling. Never on earth had he had such a realistic, incredible dream. What horrible thing had he done to be thwarted in such a manner? He clapped his hands over his face, digging his fingers into his eyelids and growled in frustration, his voice rising to a shriek. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on the memory of the dream, of Greg’s hands on him. He was determined to fall back asleep and return to the dream. 

Nothing happened. Breathing out, he tried to relax. _Think of Greg,_ he told himself. _Concentrate on his hands, his lips, the warm smell of him._

Opening his eyes, he saw the same bedroom. The rumpled red sheets, the festive quilt. No Greg. Sighing, he gave up. It was time he got up, anyway. Frowning, he realized that if he was awake the bedroom should have returned to the usual bedding. Also, his alarm shouldn’t be ringing so gently. His mobile shouldn’t still be the festive red one. Sitting up, frowning, he reached for the phone, wondering at what a strange dream this was.

The number which came up merely said Musgrave Hall, and he blinked at it in shock. Finger shaking, he accepted the call. “M-mycroft Holmes.” His voice was faint, and he realized a cold sweat had broken out on his hairline.

**Author's Note:**

> This is very much a WIP and given my mental and physical health the last few days, I can't guarantee regular updates. But I'll do my best.


End file.
